


A Foolish Thought, to Say a Sorry Sight

by magicalmenagerie



Category: Bridgerton (TV), Bridgerton Series - Julia Quinn
Genre: Domestic Bliss, Edmund POV, Everyone learns their lesson?, F/M, Family Dynamics, Fluff and Crack, Hijinks & Shenanigans, I really just wrote 8k of crack, Kid Fic, Lol No They Don't, Missing Scene, No one knows what the play is about, Post-Canon, References to Shakespeare, The Bridgerton kids are all cryptids, Theatre, the gang's all here
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-01-25
Updated: 2021-01-25
Packaged: 2021-03-17 03:48:50
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,570
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28967856
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/magicalmenagerie/pseuds/magicalmenagerie
Summary: The Bridgerton family puts on a production of Macbeth in the spring of 1829. It goes terribly.(Idea taken from The Viscount Who Loved Me second epilogue)
Relationships: Anthony Bridgerton/Kate Sheffield, Colin Bridgerton/Penelope Featherington, Eloise Bridgerton/Phillip Crane, Francesca Bridgerton/Michael Stirling, Minor or Background Relationship(s)
Comments: 44
Kudos: 116





	A Foolish Thought, to Say a Sorry Sight

**Author's Note:**

> "It is a tale  
> Told by an idiot, full of sound and fury,  
> Signifying nothing."  
> -(5.5.30), Macbeth
> 
> Beware:  
> 1\. I have done very little research  
> 2\. I have never read/seen Macbeth  
> 3\. I think I'm funny  
> 4\. Book Spoilers Abound

_“It is mine, all mine,” she chortled, in much the same tones she’d used during the previous month’s Bridgerton family production of Macbeth. Her eldest son had casted the roles; she had been named First Witch._

_Kate had pretended not to notice when Anthony had rewarded him with a new horse._

_-_ The Viscount Who Loved Me, second epilogue

* * *

ACT I - The Announcement

_January 1829 – The extended Bridgerton family had just finished Christmas celebrations for the season and was enjoying the turn of the year at Aubrey Hall_

_The Bridgerton Family Presents:_

_Macbeth by William Shakespeare_

_Opening Night-7 th of April 1829_

_Auditions—TOMORROW!_

_Reserve your time below:_

Edmund stepped back and surveyed his handiwork. At thirteen, his days of tracing letters with the governess had long passed, but like any other young man who had far too much energy for his lanky frame, he struggled to keep his hand steady and penmanship neat. The production announcement that he posted outside the parlor door though, he decided, was good enough.

“Macbeth?” Amelia, his eldest and perhaps least annoying cousin stepped beside him. “I don’t believe I have ever seen that one,” she said. “Nor read it.”

Edmund smiled to himself. He was getting an excellent and, dare he say, most advanced education at Eton when he wasn’t on holiday, and had studied the play the previous term. His sisters and female cousins were not awarded the same privilege, but he was glad he could enlighten them on the work.

“It’s one of the great tragedies. Very…” he searched for a word, “masculine,” he decided. The part of his brain controlled by male hormones (which is to say all of it) added _much like me_ silently _._

Amelia gave an unladylike snort. “Masculinity is rather tragic, isn’t it?”

Edmund opened his mouth to retort when Belinda, her younger sister, approached them with baby Isabella heavy in her arms. “We’re putting on a play?” She raised her eyebrows, “How enlightened of us.”

“Edmund said the story is very ‘masculine’ which I presume means that a majority of the production will be the actors running about and pouring fake blood on the carpet, but” Amelia sighed “I do enjoy attending the theater, so I cannot say I am not intrigued.”

Belinda considered this. “I like fake blood,” she announced. “Cousin, put me on the list.”

Edmund nodded and scratched in her name. When he looked up, he noticed that their conversation had garnered some attention from other family members who were coming to investigate his announcement.

Everything was going according to plan, and it seemed that he hadn’t set his ambitions too high just yet.

ACT II- The Auditions 

_January 1829-The next day, Aubrey Hall_

The next twenty-four hours were madness, and in hindsight, Edmund really should have expected the harrowing amount of crying young cousins begging to be cast as the lead, the constant nagging from the housekeeper about what substances were _exactly_ in the fake blood and if they washed out, and inevitably, a stampede of Bridgertons trying to get their hands on one of the few copies of the play in the Aubrey Hall library. Edmund wondered whether being in charge was always this difficult or if it was the unique endeavor of managing his crazed family, but he was the practical sort, so he enlisted the help of Amelia to arrange auditions, be a liaison for those with questions, and (for her benefit) contribute her ‘feminine wit.’ 

Edmund still likened himself at the helm of the production, however, and considered the event an opportunity to prove himself as a worthy heir. He was to be the Viscount Bridgerton one day; there was no changing that fact, and if he couldn’t manage a measly family play, there was no way he could manage the accounts, estates, staff, and all the other bland things his father talked about during meals.

If delegation was the first lesson he learned—and really, Amelia was proving to be quite helpful what with transcribing the descriptions of each role and posting it below his announcement—then the second was time management because Edmund found himself nearly late to the first audition that was being held in one of the less important sitting rooms. Amelia and his Aunt Eloise, who was appointed as creative advisor because she insisted on being involved but was simply too pregnant to act, were situated on a bench.

“I apologize for my tardiness. We just got back from shooting a quarter of an hour ago and I had to go retrieve my play copy from its hiding spot.” He plopped down between them. “Who’s first?”

Amelia checked the list. “Belinda. But it doesn’t say which role she prefers.”

As if on cue, Belinda strode through the door to the center of the room, back urgently straight. “I am auditioning for the role of King Duncan,” she declared.

Edmund drew his eyebrows together. “But you’re not a man.”

“I can wear breeches,” she argued. “In fact, I can probably fit into yours.” She eyed his skinny legs knowingly.

“You’re thirteen.” he countered, opting to ignore that rather disturbing comment. 

“So are you!”

“She has a point there,” Amelia whispered in his ear. Aunt Eloise nodded in agreement.

Belinda put her hands on her hips and glared at him in the trademark Bridgerton fashion. “So? Will you let me audition?” she demanded.

Edmund turned to his aunt. She tilted her head and assessed her niece for a moment. “One of the witches will do,” she decided. Edmund and Amelia chuckled. Belinda blanched. 

“You may go,” Edmund shooed. “And bring in the next person once you leave.”

Belinda gritted and turned on one heel, proceeding to stomp out of the room. “You’ll pay for this,” she warned.

Needless to say, Edmund and his associates were unconcerned with that threat.

The next family member to appear in front of them was Violet, his Uncle Benedict’s youngest daughter who was four years old. Her mother, his Aunt Sophie, stood in the corner, presumably for moral support.

“Can she even read?” Edmund asked to the room at large.

“She read the word ‘cat’ the other day,” her mother supplied. “I think.”

“What role exactly, is she opting to try out for?” Amelia asked.

Sophia shrugged. “We thought perhaps one of the murderers? The lines are simple enough.”

Violet, who had yet to say a word because she was rather preoccupied with her braids, perked her head up and nodded sweetly in agreement.

Eloise and Amelia cooed. Edmund, however, just groaned.

“Fine.” If it were anyone besides the two kindest women in his family, he surely would have rioted at them. Instead, he stood up and walked out of the sitting room, scratching new words into the parchment outside that said. ‘NO AUDITIONS-AGES 10 AND BELOW’

This, of course, was met with an eruption of weeping from the crowd of eavesdropping toddlers at the foot of the door and subsequent pleading from their nearby maids to ‘just let them audition,’ so Edmund changed his wording to read:

~~NO AUDITIONS-AGES 10 AND BELOW~~

AGES 10 AND BELOW—MURDERERS ONLY

It took some clarification, but eventually his changes were met with acceptance.

Back in the sitting room, the third person to arrive for an audition was Edmund’s mother.

“Mother, what are you doing here?”

Kate plastered a bright smile to her face that Edmund knew all too well. “Auditioning.”

“Don’t you have things to do, like—” he stopped short and glanced to his aunt, “What _do_ wives do?”

Eloise scrunched up her nose and thought for a second. “I don’t actually know what I do,” she admitted.

“Edmund,” his mother interrupted congenially, “please stop insulting the lifestyles of half the women in this building and let me audition.”

Edmund decided not to argue with that because he preferred not to get reamed out during work hours.

“And who are you auditioning for?” Amelia asked politely.

Kate stood silently for a second as if she had not considered that she would make it that far, before striding toward her son and taking the list of roles from his hand. She scanned the list for a moment. “Lady Macduff,” she announced.

“Do you have anything prepared?” Edmund asked.

“No, but if you refuse me, I can have your father take away your stallion for the season? She is getting pretty old from what I understand, and that’s so unsafe for a young man like yourself to be riding. And it’s my house, after all,” she added for good measure.

“Lady MacDuff will do,” Edmund told Amelia, quickly. “Put her down for that.”

Kate smiled at her son and turned to leave the room. “Thank you, sweeting,” she called from the threshold.

Edmund gulped and considered the crisis mostly averted.

He was still thinking of this when the next individual appeared, but the person in question wasn’t auditioning at all.

“Eloise, please,” Sir Phillip pleaded with his wife. “You must rest. You’re due in less than two months,” he tried to pull her gently from the bench with his arms, but she stayed firmly rooted to the seat. 

“Darling, you don’t need to worry,” she assured in a falsely-kind tone, “I got plenty of rest this morning when you excluded me from the shooting excursion.”

Phillip’s face fell. “You’re pregnant! You cannot handle a gun!” he argued exasperatedly.

She scoffed. “I can handle a gun better than anyone at Aubrey Hall.”

Edmund and Amelia watched this exchange in fascinated silence for several minutes, eyes bouncing back and forth between the married couple as they delved into increasingly irrational arguments until poor Phillip finally admitted defeat. 

“Fine, stay,” he sighed, “but I’m putting a lock on my gun cabinet when we return to Romney Hall.”

His back turned, Eloise shot a wry expression to her niece and nephew. “As if I don’t know how to pick a lock,” she mouthed.

There was one more audition after that before they broke for refreshments, wherein twelve-year-old Caroline (younger sister to Amelia and Belinda) performed a worryingly realistic moon ritual to prove her prowess as a witch. Neither Edmund nor his associates stopped her out of morbid curiosity, but they exchanged frightened looks when she skipped back into the hallway several minutes later. 

Once she left, Edmund stood up and began pacing the room. “I didn’t think this would be so bloody difficult,” he confessed.

“Really?” Amelia asked. “I thought you knew what you were getting into with this lot.”

“They are actually proving to be better than I expected,” Eloise said.

“We cast a toddler as one of our murderers!” Edmund practically shouted. “How can this possibly be going well?”

Amelia frowned at him. “Perhaps you just need sandwiches, and you’ll feel better. Aunt Lucy was waxing poetic about the cucumber ones at lunch yesterday.”

Amelia was right, of course. The sandwiches did make him feel better, even if he preferred the ham ones, and when they sat again on the bench, this time with a full tray, Edmund was determined to maintain an optimistic disposition. 

The disposition in question actually remained for a short while because the next audition was—miraculously—a successful one. Aunt Penelope and Uncle Colin insisted on having a joint audition for Lord and Lady Macbeth and presented a decent enough—albeit dramatic performance of the two leads and even though his uncle Colin had the last sandwich hanging out of his mouth the entire time, Edmund put them on the short list for the roles.

Edmund’s progress and accompanying satisfaction slowed to a halt, however, when his eleven-year-old brother, Miles, appeared in the sitting room seemingly out of nowhere and proclaimed, “I want to be Banquo.”

Edmund, Amelia and Eloise stared at him.

“Miles,” Amelia started slowly, “Are you sure that you have the, er, comprehension level to-” she was interrupted when Miles broke out into a soliloquy.

“ _Thou has it no king, Cawdor, Glamis, all.  
As the weird women promised, and I fear  
Thou played’st most foully for ‘t. Yet it was said-”_

“How in God’s name did he manage to memorize this,” Eloise muttered.

“No idea” Edmund shook his head, unable to take his eyes off the bizarre scene unfolding in front of him.

_“-Of many kings. If there come truth from them –  
As upon thee, Macbeth, their speeches shine –”  
_

Amelia was too shocked say anything, mouth hanging open in an expression that indicated a cross between shock and concern.

_“May they not be my oracles as well,  
And set me up in hope? But hush, no more.” _

Miles finished, out of breath from shouting some of the lines, but with an odd mix of resignation and fear in his eyes.

The sitting room was silent for at least a minute before anyone could speak. It was Amelia who finally found the proper words. “That was—brilliant Miles, thank you,” she sputtered. Miles gave a silent bow, and once he was gone, his aunt muttered to Edmund, “Do keep an eye on him during school next term.”

He nodded silently, already thinking the same thing himself.

The rest of the performances flew by in such a painful blur that, when he looked back on it, Edmund could only recall exiting a delirious sort of state with the list of roles laying limp in his hands and a pounding headache. There were only two more auditions until reprieve, he told himself, and they were thankfully from adults.

Uncle Gregory was in the middle of a rather egregious performance of Malcolm when his younger sister, Aunt Hyacinth barged into the room. “Gregory please stop this instant and put them out of their misery,” she pronounced, pushing back her shoulders. “It is my turn, and I have waited long enough, I think.”

Gregory glared at her. “Don’t you have children to go look after?”

“Don’t you?” she retorted and walked over to him, pushing him out the door. He elbowed her in the stomach.

“Ow!” She stompped him on the foot. “You’re lucky I’m not pregnant right now!”

“I was in the middle of something!” he said hotly and turned to Edmund, Amelia and Eloise for support. “Right?”

They exchanged glances.

“We’ve seen enough. You may go, Gregory,” Eloise said without feeling.

With a defeated groan, he stalked from the sitting room.

Hyacinth then turned to them with an eager smile, but before she could speak, Edmund cut in. “Can we just make you another witch and be done with it? My head hurts.”

Amelia nodded sagely in agreement. “We have no doubts about your ability to bring spirit to the production, Aunt Hyacinth.”

She frowned. “That isn’t fair. Is Gregory going to get a part?”

“Most likely not.”

She thought about this. “Then I’m happy with any role,” she decided. And with that, the torture was done.

With auditions complete, the trio sat on the bench for a half an hour more, deliberating which parts would go to whom, and doubling up smaller roles for the younger cousins to make them feel included. They deemed the cast list acceptable enough about an hour before dinner was to be called, so Edmund headed toward his chambers in hoped of sleeping off his headache before being subjected to another bout of family time.

He was dragging himself past his father’s office when he heard his name being called from the open door. “Edmund, come in here.”

Edmund briefly wondered if he was in trouble, but quickly dismissed the notion. If he was in trouble, he was too tired to care.

Once he stepped into the office, his father jumped from his seat and headed for the door, scanning the vicinity as if he suspected something menacing was lurking through the halls. Upon confirmation that there coast was clear, Anthony shut the door softly and leaned on the desk next where his son had set the cast list.

“How did the auditioning go?” he asked, reading through the list. If it were anyone else, Edmund might have objected to this, but he was the Viscount after all, and Edmund hadn’t the slightest why his father would have such a vested interest in the information in the first place.

“Terribly.”

His father smiled to himself as he continued to read. “Well, I’m sure you expected as much.”

Edmund nodded in confirmation even though he hadn’t.

“I have,” Anthony picked up the parchment and handed it back to him, “one change to suggest.”

Edmund blinked. “Why?”

“I think your mother was miscast.”

Edmund fought the urge to role his eyes. Whenever he got caught up in the weird games his parents played with one another he always ended up worse for it.

“She threatened that if I didn’t cast her as that specific role that she’d make you take away my horse.”

Anthony barked out a laugh and crossed his arms. “Did she?”

Edmund shrugged. “I didn’t think it was worth arguing about.”

“Be that as it may, but I have it under great authority that you can expect a _new_ horse for your birthday if you switch her role with Hyacinth’s.” He levelled a stare at his son. “Does that sound good?”

Edmund considered the self-satisfied glint in his father’s eye. This time it was worth it to get involved and they both knew it.

Edmund picked up his fountain pen. “Done.”

ACT III-Casting Announcement

_January 1829-The day after that, Aubrey Hall_

Edmund posted the cast list outside the parlor while most of the family was eating lunch the next day. He figured this was the best way to avoid getting trampled, and when he a entered the dining room to announce that it was up, he made sure to stand to the side while his family members dashed out of the room. He stole the last of their sandwiches for good measure.

There was going to be rioting. _That_ he was sure of, so he took as much food as he could fit onto a tray and entered the same sitting room as the day before where only Amelia was waiting for him (Eloise was resting upstairs to Phillip’s great satisfaction). The angry mob would find them soon enough and he figured he should be well-fed and comfortable while getting crucified by weeping five-year-old’s and their exhausted nurses and parents.

He was surprised, however, by the speed in which they were able to locate him, because he had only been sitting for two minutes when most of his cast (and Gregory) thundered into the room.

“You gave a four-year-old the role of murderer? A _murderer_?!”

“Very humble of you to cast yourself as the King, Edmund, really.”

“You said I couldn’t be the king because I’m a girl and then you cast Aunt Francesca as Fleance?”

Amelia stood. “EVERYONE SHUT UP!” All eyes went to her. “While Edmund and I are very eager to answer your inquiries, we would appreciate if you could organize yourselves in an orderly manner,” she said assertively.

They stared at her blankly.

“That means one at a time,” she ground out, dropping to the bench again.

“Thank you,” Edmund told her, wiping the crumbs off his mouth with a napkin.

“Now,” he turned to his Uncle Michael who was standing rather awkwardly on the outskirts of the group. “Your question?”

Michael turned to him, alarmed to have been called out. “Uh yeah, Edmund? You are aware that I didn’t audition? And you cast me as Macbeth.”

“Yes, I have several questions about that as well.” Colin commented dryly. Penelope shushed him.

Edmund ignored that. “To answer your question Michael, you got the part because _you_ didn’t steal any of my sandwiches,” he said rather pointedly. “And you’re Scottish.”

Michael processed this. “I have…” he scratched his head sheepishly, clearly thinking of an excuse. “…Earl duties to look after.”

“We all know Francesca does most of the work outside of Parliament,” Hyacinth cut in. Michael looked as if he wanted to argue but did not have the audacity to do so. Hyacinth, unaware or at least unbothered by her rudeness, turned to Edmund. “I thought I was to be a witch?”

“We thought the role of model wife was much more suitable for you,” Amelia explained. Someone in the group coughed to cover up a chuckle.

Hyacinth considered this. “I suppose you’re right. I will humbly take on that role,” she nodded solemnly.

Gregory swore to himself. “And what about me?” he demanded. “You cast little Oliver as Malcolm _and_ the porter before you cast me as anything?”

Edmund shrugged. “He was far more compelling in the role.” Amelia nodded vigorously in agreement.

Gregory gave an unmanly pout and left, passing Edmund’s mother on her way in. Her husband was hot on her heels looking pleased with himself.

“Edmund!” she called. “The First witch?” she narrowed her eyes. “I thought we had an agreement.”

Edmund looked over her shoulder to his father who was smirking evilly. “I changed my mind,” he said lazily.

She spun on her heel to her husband. “You did this,” she accused.

“I’ve never forced my son to do anything he didn’t want to do,” he said innocently.

She glared and kicked him lightly on the shin. “Out,” she pointed to the door.

He laughed and left the room with no resistance.

“Is there anyone here who doesn’t have a problem with the casting?” Edmund asked the room.

“I’m happy,” Penelope announced. “I just wanted to see how everyone reacted. Also, you don’t need to worry, husband, I can help you with your lines,” she said to Michael.

Colin frowned at this. His words betrayed him, however, when he said: “I suppose Macduff isn’t a bad role to play.”

“I also didn’t try out, but playing a witch goddess doesn’t sound that bad,” Sophie piped up.

“And I’m Banquo!” Miles declared loudly. Everyone stared at him.

“Anyway…” Edmund said, commanding attention again. “I’m glad you’re all here. Opening night will be in three months’ time at Bridgerton house. Memorize your lines in that time and we will begin rehearsals one week beforehand, when I return home for holiday. Questions?”

“This play is about _tyranny_ , correct?” someone muttered.

“I heard that!” Edmund shouted, then gestured to Amelia to follow him. “Now we must take our leave. We have planning to do.”

ACT IV-Rehearsals

_March 1829, Bridgerton House, London_

The next three months were more work than he expected, but Edmund was ultimately happy with the plans he set in place. He delegated costuming to his cousins and mother (who had always enjoyed making monster costumes for her parties) and had kept correspondence with Eloise and Penelope who he had enlisted to make sure everyone was memorizing their lines while he was away at school. As for Miles and his male cousins who were with him at Eton, they regularly ran lines and choreographed fight scenes whenever they were given free time and came up with a brilliantly red concoction for the fake blood.

In late March, the boys were dismissed from school for a short break and headed home. Edmund returned to Bridgerton house where the staff was setting up the house for the season. The first day of rehearsals was several days later, and when the time came, he was delighted to see that most of his cast had made it to London. Some of the cousins who lived far off into the country had still not arrived, however, and his cousin Belinda had come down with a horrid cold and couldn’t rehearse, but his family otherwise present and somewhat attentive to his direction.

They made do with stand-ins for each scene and because he (begrudgingly) allowed the cast to use the scripts for their first run through, the first day was only slightly worse than he expected. It was that night during dinner that things started to go awry.

“I’ve heard from Daphne today,” his mother said, setting down her fork. “She said Belinda will not be well in time for the play.”

Edmund deflated and pushed his hand into his hair. He was never one for table manners. “Great,” he grumbled, “what am I supposed to do now? Barely anyone is in town to prepare in her place.”

“Don’t kill the messenger,” Kate admonished. “And your Uncle Gregory is in residence right now.”

Anthony choked on his food.

Edmund stared at her. “Uncle Gregory as a witch? Are you mad?” he asked.

His mother, thankfully, ignored this impropriety and steeled herself. “Witches can be men! Warlocks, I believe they are called. And besides, he wanted to be in the play, and you were too coldhearted to cast him.”

“He was terrible,” Edmund countered.

She dismissed this with a wave. “I can help him.”

“Listen to your mother,” his father suggested wisely, “she does have a lot of witchy experience.”

Kate turned and shot him a glare so icy that Edmund could feel it on the other side of the table. “You forget yourself, husband.”

“Ah, but I didn’t. Wife.” He punctuated the statement—nay, challenge, with a smirk.

Edmund wrinkled his nose in disgust. He knew they were getting started on another confusing bout of arguing that they always seemed to enjoy far too much, so he turned to his side, opting to ignore them in favor of his brother.

“What do you think, Miles?” he asked, only to find that Miles’ blank stare was so far away from the dining room that he probably didn’t even know that a conversation was happening.

Edmund sighed.

After dinner, he prepared a note for Gregory.

* * *

Edmund was happy to see that his Uncle turned up at rehearsals the next day in addition to a few faces who had missed the day before, and while Gregory certainly was not pleased to be an understudy for a thirteen-year-old girl playing a hag, he seemed determined to take on the role with sincerity and spirit.

They got a late start to rehearsing though, because his Macbeth arrived nearly a half an hour late, with Aunt Francesca dragging him in by the sleeve proclaiming that her husband had tried to “feign malaria again” in order to get out of rehearsing. Then, several minutes later when they picked up with act 3, Edmund realized he had to let them read from their scripts because they were still hopeless without them (except, of course, for Miles who could absurdly deliver every word and remember every cue in his sleep). These events, coupled with the fact that whenever Hyacinth entered the room someone would expertly mutter “something wicked this way comes,” ensured enough unproductivity that they were a whopping 3 scenes behind on the schedule Amelia had drawn up.

Edmund, aware of this fact and growing steadily more fatigued by the minute, tried to hold strong. “Violet, start again with the line, _‘My lord, his throat is cut. That I did for him.’_ And this time be more bloodthirsty, please,” he said to his four-year-old cousin.

She delivered the line quite cutely and Edmund decided that they could take artistic liberties with the murderer characters, if need be.

Michael shifted from one foot to the other as he stared down at his script. The he looked at little Violet who stood three feet tall in her long braids. 

_“Thou art the best o' th' cutthroats,”_ he told her awkwardly. _“Yet he’s good that did the like for Fleance.”_ He glanced nervously to where Francesca stood offstage and she gave him an eager nod of encouragement. _“If thou didst it, thou art the nonpareil.”_

Michael and Violet continued in this way for several lines, with Sophie feeding the words into Violet’s ear from her side.

When Violet finally exited stage left, Penelope advanced toward Michael. 

_“My royal lord,”_ she said with a faux sweetness.

_“You do not give the cheer. The feast is sold_

_That is not often vouched, while ’tis a-making,_

_'Tis given with welcome. To feed were best at home;_

_From thence, the sauce to meat is ceremony;_

_Meeting were bare without it-_ Edmund?” she stopped.

“What?” Edmund asked exasperatedly. “You were doing so well.”

“I’m not sure what I should do with my hands?” she asked.

Edmund bit back a sigh of frustration. “Aunt Eloise?” He turned to his aunt (who managed to sneak away from her newborn baby while he was napping to make a brief appearance), “what do you think?”

“I think they’re quite fine where they are, Penelope,” she said prudently.

 _“Sweet remembrancer!”_ Michael exclaimed, on cue. 

_“Now, good digestion wait_ in- I mean, _on”_ he corrected himself _“appetite,_

 _And health on both-_ Edmund?”

“What.” Edmund couldn’t even bring himself tilt his voice at the end to ask it as a question.

“…Now I’m thinking about what I should be doing with my hands?” Michael stared at his empty hand as if its existence befuddled him.

Edmund, who was only thirteen of age, and addled with growth spurts and hormones already, felt like he was going to scream. _More than usual._

“Michael, your hand at your side is spectacular as always,” Amelia assured him before Edmund said something he’d regret.

_“May ’t please your highness sit.”_

Then Miles entered the makeshift stage, looking quite un-humanly pale before sitting at the table where Michael was situated earlier in the scene.

From behind him in the audience, Edmund heard his mother whisper, “did he steal my powder?” and a chorus of strangled laughs from Gregory and Caroline.

“Miles, you know you don’t have to wear the ghost makeup until opening night,” Edmund interrupted loudly. Taking his rage out on his brother was not an unfamiliar undertaking for him.

Miles just stared at him blankly.

“Miles!” Edmund practically shouted.

He blinked. It was clear his younger brother heard him and was deciding not to respond. 

Edmund was about ready to jump on the stage and rip his head off when— “Er-Edmund?” Penelope said.

Edmund stared at her.

“I don’t think he’s going to answer you. Shakespearean ghosts don’t speak, you see-” she gestured to Miles “and I think he’s pretty in-character.”

Edmund had to adjourn rehearsals after that. The decision probably prevented him from an aneurysm.

ACT V-THE PERFORMANCE

_April 1829-Bridgerton House, London_

They continued to meet for rehearsals every afternoon that week. In that time, they managed to run through the entire play two times, but only half of the cast had their lines memorized, and this was including the toddlers portraying the three murderers. By the night before the production rolled around, Edmund was far past wondering why on earth he decided on this undertaking (something about proving himself worthy to be Viscount? Or something equally bloody stupid?), and on to plotting various ways he could shirk responsibility onto someone else. He was even hoping, bizarrely, that some cruel twist of fate would render the production unperformable (—perhaps he could feign malaria as well? It couldn’t be that difficult).

His efforts to dodge his directorial duties or contract a foreign illness (fake or otherwise) were unfruitful, however, and he woke up on the morning of the production with a wave of dread awash over him. 

The first person he saw that morning besides butlers and the like was his mother, who was scrambling around the first floor directing the staff in preparations for the play that night. A decent number of families from the ton would be attending, even if many people had yet to arrive for the London season.

When she saw Edmund, she stopped in her tracks. “What’s wrong with you this morning—shouldn’t you be excited?”

Edmund avoided her questioning gaze by staring at the wooden floor. “This is going to be a disaster,” he sighed.

She looked at him confusedly for a moment. “Yes, and?”

“I don’t want to go through with it,” he confessed. “We— _I_ am going to make a fool of myself.”

“That shouldn’t be a reason not to do it. People embarrass themselves around here all the time. It’s in our nature as members of the ton,” she confided.

“But the gossip sheets-”

“The gossip sheets aren’t going to criticize a thirteen-year-old,” she scoffed. “If anything, they’ll call out the Earl of Kilmartin for being a deplorable actor, or myself for being a fiendishly realistic witch,” she laughed. “No thanks to you, I might add.”

“They can go on without me! We’ll just have Miles take on the role of King Duncan. I think he has the whole play memorized, or better yet, we can just cancel it all together.”

His mother levelled with an uncomfortably assessing stare for a moment. “If you think, that after all the work these people,” she gestured to the flurry of servants walking about “myself, and more than half of your family have put in, that you will just be able to _cancel_ the production, then I have terrible news for you,” she said. “You will put on this play proudly, no matter how rubbish it is, and you will be thankful that you had the opportunity to spend time with your Aunts and Uncles and cousins, and that not a single person questioned you after you made the spontaneous announcement that you were putting on a play in our house. And that your family made a serious effort to comply with your strict schedules without—well, okay, with minimal complaining. Is that clear?”

Edmund, who had been diminished to a sheepish puddle, raised his gaze to his mother and nodded. “I’m Sorry, Mama. I just thought I was going to be better at being in charge.”

Her eyes softened. “You’d have to be a war general to effectively manage a group of Bridgertons that large. Why do you think your father is _like that_?” she said affectionately.

Edmund smiled to himself.

“Now come give me a hug,” she ordered. Edmund complied and embraced his mother, and he wouldn’t admit it out loud, but he felt much better after that.

Miles and Charlotte, his youngest sister, came in from the garden a moment later. “Come here. We are hugging,” she told them. When they joined them in their little group hug, Edmund wanted to complain and let go, but he delayed that for another minute for his mother’s benefit. 

* * *

The entirety of the cast along with most of the rest of the family arrived mid-afternoon. The skies were a bland gray, but the energy inside the house was alight with the tittering of nervous cousins, the ruckus of screaming babies, and everyone’s wonderment at the realism of the fake blood and makeshift swords.

The stage had been set with the props and other materials the night before, but when Edmund wandered into the room that afternoon, he noticed that someone had lain stark white sheets under the set and hung them rather inelegantly off the stage. 

“Who messed up my stage? And why?” Edmund asked the nearest maid.

“The housekeeper wants to protect the floor from the blood you made,” they explained. “And the Viscountess did not object to the decision.”

“Protecting the floors isn’t in the spirit of murder!” he argued. The maid just shrugged and left him standing next to the wide windows. (That was the exact moment it began snowing, but Edmund didn’t notice at the time.)

The next several hours were hectic enough that Edmund hadn’t the time for a spare thought. Props breaking, the brewing of extra blood, and getting everyone into appropriate garments commanded so much of his and Amelia’s attention that night fell and he barely noticed.

They arranged a large family dinner in the dining room that night instead of banishing the children to the nursery, and Edmund ate raucously with his head down. Dread was still building inside of him, but with the event drawing nearer he was becoming excited that the experience would be over with soon.

About halfway through the meal, Belinda, who had oh so miraculously recovered from her illness just in time to watch the play that night, said “Wow, is it _still_ snowing?”

Edmund’s head shot up. “Snowing? In April?”

“Stranger things have happened,” she said, peering toward the window again. “Will people even be able to travel in that?”

Edmund dashed to the window—table manners be damned—and to his surprise found that nearly four inches of fallen snow was sticking to the ground.

The dining room was quiet save for several scrapes of forks against plates. Clearly, anyone who knew what was going on was waiting to see his reaction.

“Edmund, sweeting,” he heard his mother’s voice from the table. “Perhaps, you should sit back down, and we can figure out—”

“Did anyone send their regrets?” he interrupted.

She hesitated. “No, I can’t imagine anyone would be sending their servants out in this weather to catch a cold.” That was all the confirmation he needed.

If she was going to say anything else, Edmund didn’t hear, because he let out a whoop of joy so loud that it stunned the dining room into silence. All the heads at the table stared as he ambled back to his seat on the far side of the room, sat down and began munching amiably on his meat.

“Does this mean I won’t be able to play murderer?” One toddler asked another, breaking the silence. 

“Nope,” Edmund responded merrily. And with that, the other patrons of the dining room who had previously been shocked and silent, found their voices. Chaos erupted.

“NO? Mama, I prepared all week for this!” someone shouted.

A glass fell to the floor. A servant tripped on their way to pick it up. 

“But what about the fake blood!” someone else cried.

A baby started crying accompanied by shushing from its mother. Someone tried to bang their spoon against a glass of water.

“Oh, thank God,” someone who sounded suspiciously like Michael muttered nearby. The sound of metal against glass sounded one more time and—

“ENOUGH!” Amelia stood up from the table, panting from the shriek. After a moment she regained her composure. “As one of three directors of this production, I say the show will go on, even if Edmund and the weather wish otherwise.”

There were mutterings, some agreeing and others disagreeing, but ultimately Amelia’s assertion was not enough to confirm the matter.

“I agree,” Eloise said, not bothering to stand and instead waving her hand about. “Edmund,” she looked toward him, “are you going to join us?”

All the eyes in the room fell on him.

Edmund was honestly surprised one of the adults hasn’t put a stop to the yelling, sweeping announcements, and hushed whispers, but when he glanced around the room, he saw that many of them—including his parents—were highly amused with the drama unfolding in the dining room. 

He cleared his throat and thought of what his mother said to him that morning, then he looked into the sea of young, hopeful faces, chuckled at the sight of those who were dreading the show as much as he was, and finally made his pronouncement.

“Fine,” he said with no great drama.

There wasn’t a resounding applause or anything like that, although some of the younger children tried to start one. The meal actually continued as normal, with happy chatter and newfound excitement for the show, but this time Edmund sat at his place with a new peace, unaware of the fact that he had just commanded a room full of Bridgertons for the first time in his life. 

* * *

The production was set to begin several hours after dinner, and even though the snow stopped an hour or so before showtime, nobody aside from a few close family friends and neighbors showed up. The audience was relatively full despite this though, because of the sheer amount of Bridgertons that existed coupled with the fact that the household staff was invited to watch the production because there were so few guests in attendance.

This meant the difference between the welcoming applause and following silent anticipation of the beginning was stark, and the audience sat unaware that the trouble would start not even one scene into the production.

The play began as it always did with three hags. Kate, Gregory, and Caroline gathered in the center of stage in dark garments, trying their hardest to look like believable witches.

“ _When shall we three meet again? In thunder, lightning, or in rain?”_ Kate purred in a bizarre voice that she hadn’t used in rehearsals.

“ _When the hurly-burly’s done, When the battle’s lost and won,”_ Gregory sang similarly without shame.

 _“That will be ere the set of sun,”_ Caroline finished.

They all cackled evilly, and the sound was horridly high-pitched, but then Gregory choked on (presumably) his own sputum and had to cough for excruciating 30 seconds before Kate could deliver her next line.

She hunched over like a hag and raised her arms in the air, dramatically looking about the tiny stage. _“Where the place?”_ she screeched in her witch-voice (Edmund had to admit that his father was right—that part was rather enjoyable).

 _“Upon the heath,”_ Gregory, who had recovered, said.

 _“There to meet with Macbeth,”_ Caroline pointed dramatically.

The play continued on, and Edmund was surprised to see that most of the cast finally had their lines memorized. Once or twice someone had to call for a line or improvise a scene to get it back on track, but it could’ve been worse, he supposed.

The performances, however, left something to be desired.

Michael, handsome as ever but still hyper-fixated on the state of his hands, moved them around violently as he acted, even when he held a sword or some other prop in them. This, on top of the fact that the sheets were bunching up and causing people to trip added to the somewhat bizarre body language of the characters, but Edmund couldn’t deny that it added a sort of _comedy_ to the performance.

Any creative points that were earned in that interpretation, however, were lost when disaster struck in the third act, during Banquo’s death scene.

“ _’Tis he!”_ seven-year-old Charlotte, who was playing murderer number 3 said, pointing at Miles (who was not in his ghost makeup yet).

 _“Stand to ’t.”_ little Violet said.

Miles peered out into the audience with much emotion on his face, his character unaware that he was about to die. _“It will be rain tonight,”_ he said.

 _“Let it come down.”_ Violet chirped in her most menacing voice, pulling at her braids.

Then, the three child-aged murderers went to attack Miles, but Charlotte, who was the oldest murderer and thus tasked with holding the fake blood, tripped over a wrinkle in the sheet and fell on her face into Agatha. The fake blood spilled from her pocket in heaps which got all over both of their dresses, and then the screaming commenced.

The audience gasped, and whether that was from the terror of plot or the horror of a mess that the servants would probably be cleaning up, Edmund wasn’t sure.

Miles, bless his dramatic little soul, tried to stay in character. He fell to the floor as well. _“O treachery! Fly, good Fleance, fly, fly, fly!_ ” he shouted and squirmed violently on the ground as if being attacked, even though all three of his attackers were preoccupied with crying over their soiled dresses and scraped knees. “ _Thou may ’st revenge —O slave!”_ he screamed at Francesca, the only adult onstage, who stared in shock at the scene for several seconds before scrambling the little girls away from the mess.

The rest of the scene was scrapped, and there was a brief intermission wherein mothers and maids ran around the room wiping floors, dresses, and tears off faces. There was also an awkward minute or so in which Edmund’s mother had to scrape Miles, who was still playing dead, off the ground while wearing her witch costume. In the end, the way she got him to stand up was by reminding him that it was time to put on ghost makeup.

While act three ended up being the worst of the disasters, acts four and five did not continue without error. What with the unexpected break in the performance and subsequent banning of the vats of fake blood backstage, the sense of doom that was supposed to envelop the story had been stunted to a tedium. The audience also became much less engrossed in the plot and thought themselves at liberty to comment aloud whenever they pleased.

For instance, whenever Hyacinth sashayed around the stage acting as the sweet and innocent foil to the madness of Lady Macbeth and the witches, Gareth would push his face into his hand and mutter “Good God,” to himself. It earned him a few shushes each time, but half-hearted ones.

The continued appearances of the murderers also brought paranoia to the cast and audience, with everyone sitting on the edge of their seats or standing at the ready in case of another disaster. The girls had mostly recovered though, and it wasn’t until act five that there was another major problem. 

_“Why should I play the Roman fool and die_

_On mine own sword? Whiles I see lives, the gashes_

_Do better upon them.”_ Michael said, appearing on stage with a sword at his hip.

“Turn, hellhound, turn!” Colin roared from the other side. They advanced toward each other.

_“Of all men else I have avoided thee._

_But get thee back. My soul is too much charged_

_With blood of thine already,”_ Michael warned.

_“I have no words._

_My voice is in my sword. Thou bloodier villain_

_Than terms can give thee out!”_ Colin cried, stance ready and sword in hand.

Then the two began to fight.

If there was anything that Edmund was proud of when it came to the production, it had to be the genius of the fight choreography. Most of the men involved, including cousins, uncles, fathers and brothers alike, had used their fencing skills to create realistic and exciting fights. And while it was perhaps the truest tragedy of the night that they could no longer hold the fake blood in their pockets to burst out upon being stabbed, the sword fighting still held up.

Michael and Colin sparred for a couple of minutes, advancing, backing up, spinning, and dodging, all while shouting lines at one another and having what was probably the only enjoyable experience of the evening, when Colin took a misstep backwards and toppled off the front of the stage. He landed on the ground at the feet of the people the first row.

The first row in question, which included Anthony, Benedict, Daphne and Simon, looked rather delighted at this turn of events while Michael stood in the middle of the stage by himself staring down at Colin with his sword hanging uselessly from his side. “Sorry!” he called, and without thinking, made moves to help him back up.

“So does Macbeth win in this version?” someone in the audience asked.

“I think Macbeth and MacDuff are making up?” someone else whispered.

“Huh.”

Colin returned to his feet, uninjured everywhere except in pride, and the audience’s questions were answered when they continued the production as usual, with MacDuff defeating Macbeth in battle and parading around the stage with his disembodied head. (They used a painted melon for this).

Once Oliver entered to deliver the last lines of the play, accepting his role as the new King of Scotland and calling for peace and justice, the proverbial curtain fell, and the room was left in silence.

When no one did anything, he looked around and helpfully added “The End,” to which the entire front row erupted into a roaring applause. The parts of the audience that were not full of Bridgertons had a rather lukewarm response, awkwardly clapping their hands together several times while muttering with one another. The least welcoming response came from the servants in the back who realized that their entertainment was over and that they had to return to work.

The cast flooded out from backstage while only ten people were still applauding, and once they took their final bows, they retreated into groups to chat and congratulate each other on the performance.

Edmund knew there wasn’t much to be congratulated upon because the performance was essentially a rubbish fire, so he stuck to outskirts of the room watching people laugh and hug. The moment should have been cathartic, but Edmund only felt exhausted, so he leaned against a conveniently placed chair and yawned, wondering how long he had to be seen down there before he could escape to his chambers for sleep.

Apparently he wasn’t the only person thinking this though, because Amelia stepped beside him and collapsed on the chair in question. She had been backstage the entire time handling props and making sure people entered on the right cue. And once he thought about it, Edmund realized she probably had an important part in blood cleanup as well. “That went pretty terribly,” she sighed.

“I don’t think a production of this play could possibly get worse than this was,” he agreed.

Amelia wrinkled her nose. “I think I read somewhere that someone died on its opening night?”

Edmund blinked. “Then the play must be cursed to have two productions go that terribly,” he decided.

Amelia laughed. “Don’t blame this disaster on the play, blame it on the fact that we are Bridgertons and simply couldn’t help ourselves.”

“Is that what we are learning from this whole experience?” Edmund asked wryly, eyeing her where she sat.

She frowned at him. “What do _you_ think we learned?”

“Well, it’s the same point of the play isn’t it?” he said, rather condescendingly. “Being in charge of things is awful and definitely not worth it.”

Amelia stared at him in confusion. “I thought the point of the play was that men would shouldn’t be left unchecked in their power. A woman wouldn’t have let those things happen,” she said.

Eloise sauntered up beside them a moment before, having heard the tail end of their conversation. She leaned her back against the wall and sighed. There was a lot of sighing going on. “You’re both wrong, for the record, but I don’t have enough knowledge on the topic nor the energy to argue right now.”

The trio watched in silence as the few members of the ton left and the remaining Bridgertons retired for bed. The room was still a mess, and it was undoubtedly a mess of their invention, but Edmund thought it was rather excellent that he didn’t have to clean it up.

Just when he was about to excuse himself for sleep, he noticed his father sitting with Charlotte (who was still in her red-stained dress) on his knee.

“Wait—” Edmund froze. He remembered something.

Amelia and Eloise looked at him.

“I can’t believe I forgot that I’m getting a new horse out of this!” he exclaimed. “I take back what I said before,” he told them. “Being in charge _is_ worth it.”

Feeling rather pleased with himself, Edmund strutted over to his father to claim his reward. Amelia and Eloise were left in his wake, watching his retreating figure.

“I can’t help but feel like we are missing something here,” Amelia said to her Aunt.

“Oh yes,” Eloise said, “but perhaps that’s the dramatic irony?”

**Author's Note:**

> *In Oliver's voice* The End.
> 
> Bridgerton family tree (to keep track of everyone):  
> https://juliaquinn.com/bridgertons/family-tree-big.html


End file.
